[ So small, so fragile, so horrid. It truly does remind him a little of ogrhen- well. Save the fragility part. Not even the dwarf's ego was fragile.
Zevran settles back in his chair, watching Alistair, as he's come to do often, minding the way the light hits his jaw and his eyes, how it softens or hardens based upon a twitch or a thought. He's never been terribly good at hiding his emotions. His eyes give him away.
And the eyebrows. ]
Kieran, your boy? [ He is not going to let Alistair distance himself so easily. ] I have indeed. He has a liking for carved and jointed figurines; so I gave him a very fine Warden- full armor and all that.
[ The forced nonchalance is immediately abandoned in favor of a flat look, just short of a glare. There's no fire behind it, only flash-pan sulking at not being permitted to pretend. ]
No fire out of his eyes, or—
[ Or. Alistair isn't sure what he expects. He's also not really surprised that Zevran thinks he's being ridiculous. He knows he's being, if not fully ridiculous, at least slightly ridiculous, with nerves and uncertainty making any number of more legitimate concerns feel that much worse. But that's his way. ]
[ Alistair's free hand—the one not cradling Doghren, who seems content to dangle wherever he holds her—flies halfway up toward his face before Alistair stops himself from covering his nose like a self-conscious child and instead only continues to look sullen in Zevran's direction.
Sullen and wounded. He's used to disappointing people, he does it often and thoroughly, but not this person. (It's entirely deserved.) Sullen, wounded, and even so he manages a huff of almost-laughter and a vaguely smile-shaped twist of his mouth at the thought of Uncle Zevran. ]
[ Zevran is not often disappointed- simply by not expecting anything of anyone. That a person is decent is always a surprise; considering where he lived and grew? There is no baseline for decent. Merely civil. But Alistair-
Alistair showed him what it is to be decent. What it is to be kind. To see that someone who went out of their way time and again for him, an assassin truly deserving of scorn and skitter about sideways while scowling at a child that has done nothing?
It is quite disappointing. ]
If we give him Doghren Morrigan will turn into a spider and eat her.
[ He cradles Doghren in a little tighter, then seems to notice himself doing it and reinstates a distance. She's hideous and useless and they are only keeping her until she's large enough to fend for herself among the packs of dogs in the stables and the camps. But that means not allowing Morrigan to eat her in the meantime. ]
You could take her to play with him, though, when you—. You said she needs to be socialized.
[ Alistair looks up in surprise and then back down as quickly as he can, to try to hide the fact that he looks touched and maybe a little pleased. ]
Hm.
[ It's a thoughful hm, if a noncommittal one. Maybe he'll talk to Morrigan; maybe he's not quite there yet. He does recognize the hypocrisy—he still resents Maric, after all these years—but Alistair didn't have a mother at all, let alone a scary one who might have turned into a bear and devoured Maric if he'd done something wrong. And Maric was a king, not a Warden. And Maric was someone that other people would presumably have trusted to be able to take care of a dog. It's different.
But he's thinking. And in the meantime, while he's thinking, he doesn't like the lingering sense that he's letting Zevran down, so he scoots across the floor, Doghren herded ahead of him, to sit alongside Zevran's chair instead and lean against his knee. ]
You'd be a good father. I told you. Little Zevrans.
[ That at least seems to have gotten Alistair to think rather than react- which had been his goal. Bring a smelly dog into his livingspace that he doesn't want, deal with the whole 'son' thing you don't want. In Zevran's mind? it's fair enough an exchange.
The whole mess- and it is a mess- could be resolved without ever mentioning who exactly Alistair is. Whether that is fair or not for the boy; he cannot say. Were he in Kieran's shoes...
At his age he'd already killed a man and been claimed by an overly possessive human boy his age. He cannot put himself in Kieran's shoes- in Morrigan's, or in Alistair's. He's taken too great care in his dalliances to prevent children.
Even now he's still on occasion surprised by Alistair's tactile nature, his hand slipping down into his hair without thought as much as the tableau is horribly foreign. Swap their positions and this is how he would sit with Taliesin many a day. Though it was not near so thoughtless, not near so safe. To be trusted with this- His voice catches in his throat in a way that has little to do with children. ]
I would be a horrible father. Being a parent requires sentiment and monogamy- and I am none too skilled in either.
Pfff. [ Alistair rolls his head back to look at Zevran as directly as he can at this angle, which is not very. There's still an attempt at skeptical eye contact, though. ] You could adopt one. And if you were half as nice to a child as you are to me, that would be enough.
[ Zevran's probably displayed as much affection in the last few months as Eamon did in the span of ten years, and that counts as a nice childhood in these parts. ]
I know you have other things to do. But you would be good at it.
[ Zevran leans enough to make such eye contact possible, hand still combing idly through his hair. ]
I've adopted you, have I not? Young Alistair Arainai.
[ He snorts a laugh, looking past Alistair to the dog. Seeing him with his face tipped up and all that warm sentiment in his eyes- it is and isn't the same as the last person, pleading with him for the impossible.
Wrong voice, wrong race, wrong eyes. No tears, for one. ]
I'll need you to stick around if I mean to have or adopt children, Alistair.
As a brother. You aren't allowed to punish me or anything.
[ That's the difference, as far as he knows. And Zevran could probably kick him out of the room if he sounded like he meant it, which is the opposite of being grounded, but would be worse, and doesn't even really enter into his mind. He's smiling. Petted. He leans more heavily, and lays his head over against Zevran's leg so he can stop looking at him for the next bit. ]
You know Wardens and sticking around. Duty that can't be forsworn and so on. But you would be fine.
Older siblings punish the younger through mockery.
[ Which he can do and does often in subtle ways- enough to get Alistair to think or to poke back. It's an imperfect system but it works for them, anything else smacks of things they'd both rather avoid from their respective pasts.
It's almost easy- sitting here, watching him, petting his hair. He truly is a puppy. ]
Then we would have to follow you about. I am not raising a child on my own. You keep insisting upon it, should it ever come to pass? You are going to help whether you like it or not.
[ Zevran focuses on the pass of Alistair's hair through his hand, the first time he'd done this he'd been checking for a headwound. Found one, too. ]
With or without the child, Alistair- I will follow you when you've need of me. You know this.
[ He's a puppy, fine, but Zevran is sentimental and affectionate and kind and Alistair will fight him on that, nonviolently, with words and eyebrows and stuff, for as long as it takes. Later. When it's necessary. Right now he's going to sit here and let Doghren chew on his fingertips and let refuse to move until Zevran makes him.
On some level, underneath everything else, he's still thinking about Kieran. Slowly.
He sighs a little. It's not an unhappy sigh. ]
If you adopt a child, and you haven't fallen madly and monogamously in love with someone more useful than me, I'll ask for a permanent assignment somewhere. They'll give it to me.
[ That is better than he could ask for. It is not the villa by the coast he dreams of and strives for; but it is better than running all over the continent putting down Darkspawn activity. Not that he's tired of Darkspawn but-
he is so very tired of Darkspawn. Of worrying after Alistair. It would not be for long, should it ever come to pass- and perhaps a child would be the one thing to hold him back when the song rings true. Leaving would be selfish. ]
As I find you horribly useful that is going to be a hard bar to match.
Flatterer. [ It does sound nice, though. Alistair is good at what he does, and having what he does be of vital importance to the safety of the world is obviously—not a good thing, overall, but a good thing for his ego and its several volatile fault lines. It's nice to be necessary. But he isn't really a fighter by nature, only training. If he could be necessary in a quieter way, he wouldn't miss it much. If it meant Zevran would settle down and stop taunting assassins into sending whole groups of killers after him, even better.
They have to make sure the world doesn't end first, of course, but it's nice to think about. ]
I'm sure Doghren would love it up north, where it's warm, [ he says, only to provoke, because they're not keeping her forever, ] since she's so scrawny.
I speak the truth. No one else makes quite so fine a bedwarmer.
[ Lightly, gently- and honest. He's had enough partners in bed to know one from another- all save perhaps a Qunari fall short of Alistair's comforting sprawl. It is not so much the heat as the constant reminder that he is not alone, and that he is safe. Anyone that wished to come for him must first go through Alistair.
And now, Doghren.
His hand is light as it scritches at Alistair's nape, idl tracing the hair there. He's due a trim. ]
She is going to forget herself, eat something she shouldn't, and die.
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[ So small, so fragile, so horrid. It truly does remind him a little of ogrhen- well. Save the fragility part. Not even the dwarf's ego was fragile.
Zevran settles back in his chair, watching Alistair, as he's come to do often, minding the way the light hits his jaw and his eyes, how it softens or hardens based upon a twitch or a thought. He's never been terribly good at hiding his emotions. His eyes give him away.
And the eyebrows. ]
Kieran, your boy? [ He is not going to let Alistair distance himself so easily. ] I have indeed. He has a liking for carved and jointed figurines; so I gave him a very fine Warden- full armor and all that.
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No fire out of his eyes, or—
[ Or. Alistair isn't sure what he expects. He's also not really surprised that Zevran thinks he's being ridiculous. He knows he's being, if not fully ridiculous, at least slightly ridiculous, with nerves and uncertainty making any number of more legitimate concerns feel that much worse. But that's his way. ]
—hidden scales?
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[ It is a slimmer, more delicate version of it, to be true, but when he is grown? So too shall it settle into what is on Alistair's own face. ]
You and Leliana. I honestly thought better of you both.
[ He is not angry, not so- but he is disappointed. A ritual came and went, a life was made, the boy has strange dreams-
But he is a boy. A child. Why do they not see that? ]
I tell him stories- teach him how to play the lute. He calls me uncle.
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Sullen and wounded. He's used to disappointing people, he does it often and thoroughly, but not this person. (It's entirely deserved.) Sullen, wounded, and even so he manages a huff of almost-laughter and a vaguely smile-shaped twist of his mouth at the thought of Uncle Zevran. ]
Do you think he likes dogs?
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Alistair showed him what it is to be decent. What it is to be kind. To see that someone who went out of their way time and again for him, an assassin truly deserving of scorn and skitter about sideways while scowling at a child that has done nothing?
It is quite disappointing. ]
If we give him Doghren Morrigan will turn into a spider and eat her.
[ A beat. ]
...we should give him Dogrhen.
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[ He cradles Doghren in a little tighter, then seems to notice himself doing it and reinstates a distance. She's hideous and useless and they are only keeping her until she's large enough to fend for herself among the packs of dogs in the stables and the camps. But that means not allowing Morrigan to eat her in the meantime. ]
You could take her to play with him, though, when you—. You said she needs to be socialized.
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[ Zevran sees what he is about and...
Honestly? he does not care about Alistair's conflicted, sensitive feelings on the matter. ]
You do not need to claim yourself his father, you know. Call yourself a friend of his mother's.
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No one would believe that. Not even a ten-year-old.
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[ Doghren finally gets impatient. He sits on the floor to let her down without allowing her to wander, as promised. ]
I'm sure she doesn't want me having an influence on him, anyway. That was the deal. She takes the child, no one follows.
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[ Not that either of them know it. Not that he feels guilty. ]
I have been telling him stories of a brave, kind grey warden.
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Hm.
[ It's a thoughful hm, if a noncommittal one. Maybe he'll talk to Morrigan; maybe he's not quite there yet. He does recognize the hypocrisy—he still resents Maric, after all these years—but Alistair didn't have a mother at all, let alone a scary one who might have turned into a bear and devoured Maric if he'd done something wrong. And Maric was a king, not a Warden. And Maric was someone that other people would presumably have trusted to be able to take care of a dog. It's different.
But he's thinking. And in the meantime, while he's thinking, he doesn't like the lingering sense that he's letting Zevran down, so he scoots across the floor, Doghren herded ahead of him, to sit alongside Zevran's chair instead and lean against his knee. ]
You'd be a good father. I told you. Little Zevrans.
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The whole mess- and it is a mess- could be resolved without ever mentioning who exactly Alistair is. Whether that is fair or not for the boy; he cannot say. Were he in Kieran's shoes...
At his age he'd already killed a man and been claimed by an overly possessive human boy his age. He cannot put himself in Kieran's shoes- in Morrigan's, or in Alistair's. He's taken too great care in his dalliances to prevent children.
Even now he's still on occasion surprised by Alistair's tactile nature, his hand slipping down into his hair without thought as much as the tableau is horribly foreign. Swap their positions and this is how he would sit with Taliesin many a day. Though it was not near so thoughtless, not near so safe. To be trusted with this- His voice catches in his throat in a way that has little to do with children. ]
I would be a horrible father. Being a parent requires sentiment and monogamy- and I am none too skilled in either.
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[ Zevran's probably displayed as much affection in the last few months as Eamon did in the span of ten years, and that counts as a nice childhood in these parts. ]
I know you have other things to do. But you would be good at it.
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I've adopted you, have I not? Young Alistair Arainai.
[ He snorts a laugh, looking past Alistair to the dog. Seeing him with his face tipped up and all that warm sentiment in his eyes- it is and isn't the same as the last person, pleading with him for the impossible.
Wrong voice, wrong race, wrong eyes. No tears, for one. ]
I'll need you to stick around if I mean to have or adopt children, Alistair.
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[ That's the difference, as far as he knows. And Zevran could probably kick him out of the room if he sounded like he meant it, which is the opposite of being grounded, but would be worse, and doesn't even really enter into his mind. He's smiling. Petted. He leans more heavily, and lays his head over against Zevran's leg so he can stop looking at him for the next bit. ]
You know Wardens and sticking around. Duty that can't be forsworn and so on. But you would be fine.
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[ Which he can do and does often in subtle ways- enough to get Alistair to think or to poke back. It's an imperfect system but it works for them, anything else smacks of things they'd both rather avoid from their respective pasts.
It's almost easy- sitting here, watching him, petting his hair. He truly is a puppy. ]
Then we would have to follow you about. I am not raising a child on my own. You keep insisting upon it, should it ever come to pass? You are going to help whether you like it or not.
[ Zevran focuses on the pass of Alistair's hair through his hand, the first time he'd done this he'd been checking for a headwound. Found one, too. ]
With or without the child, Alistair- I will follow you when you've need of me. You know this.
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On some level, underneath everything else, he's still thinking about Kieran. Slowly.
He sighs a little. It's not an unhappy sigh. ]
If you adopt a child, and you haven't fallen madly and monogamously in love with someone more useful than me, I'll ask for a permanent assignment somewhere. They'll give it to me.
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he is so very tired of Darkspawn. Of worrying after Alistair. It would not be for long, should it ever come to pass- and perhaps a child would be the one thing to hold him back when the song rings true. Leaving would be selfish. ]
As I find you horribly useful that is going to be a hard bar to match.
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They have to make sure the world doesn't end first, of course, but it's nice to think about. ]
I'm sure Doghren would love it up north, where it's warm, [ he says, only to provoke, because they're not keeping her forever, ] since she's so scrawny.
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[ Lightly, gently- and honest. He's had enough partners in bed to know one from another- all save perhaps a Qunari fall short of Alistair's comforting sprawl. It is not so much the heat as the constant reminder that he is not alone, and that he is safe. Anyone that wished to come for him must first go through Alistair.
And now, Doghren.
His hand is light as it scritches at Alistair's nape, idl tracing the hair there. He's due a trim. ]
She is going to forget herself, eat something she shouldn't, and die.